


Ember

by Veestag



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011), The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mpreg, Roughness, Sexual Content, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:22:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22853173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veestag/pseuds/Veestag
Summary: The Seal Prince (Liathan) has his way with Marcus in the north while Marcus is in captivity. Love between them eventually grows from the embers of their strife. More than just love grows in Marcus.
Relationships: Marcus Flavius Aquila/Liathan, Marcus Flavius Aquila/Seal Prince
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This is my first ever fanfic. I am very excited to share it with you all! Of course, the characters and universe belong to Rosemary Sutcliff and the movie creators. I gain no money from writing this fic. I have not read the book but have seen the movie (and a little while ago at that) so bear with me if there are any inaccuracies. Any mistakes are my own.
> 
> Please read the warnings and tags in case some of them are not what you want to be reading.
> 
> I hope to update soon, but may be delayed by midterms, life, and nerves over this being my first fic.
> 
> I hope you enjoy some Seal Prince on Marcus action (and future mpreg) as much as I do!

Marcus was shivering in the tent, hands still bound tightly with rope behind his back. After Esca had betrayed him to the Seal People he had been brought to a dark, smoky tent with a few women and another man in it. They looked a little dirty and worse for wear and obviously did not fit in with the strong Seal warriors. They barely looked over at him, ignoring his presence entirely. These must have been the slaves. Marcus did not like that he now counted among them.

That had been a few hours ago. The tent had gotten progressively darker as the day waned and it was now almost pitch black, only lit by the embers of the fire that had burnt out an hour ago.

He was just thinking about how he could get it burning again with his arms still stuck behind him when two of the Seal warriors ducked under the flap that served as a door to the tent.

They looked around, dark eyes assessing the assembly of slaves until they came to rest on him. That was not good. Not good at all. They came toward Marcus and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders, hauling him up to his feet.

Marcus stumbled behind them as they dragged him out of the tent. He was weak from weeks of travelling through the cold northern lands with not enough food or sleep. Looking at the two young men, barely old enough to be counted as grown, Marcus thought they must have been low down in the hierarchy of the tribe. Sent to do the grunt work of dragging him about.

The slaves’ tent was on the outskirts of the tribe. The warriors dragged him closer towards the centre where the chieftain’s tent was, much larger and likely warmer than what the slaves got. Marcus tried to kick out at his jailers, but they just jostled him more and kept walking.

He wished that he could get an arm free and fight them properly, make them let him go. Maybe find Esca and give him a black eye for betraying him. Over the last week he had thought they had gotten closer, that Esca had begun to trust him. Marcus did not consider himself like other Roman masters. He never wanted a slave, but he needed someone to show him the way north into the savage lands.

The worst part was that the Roman had even begun to trust Esca. He had believed that they were friends, if tentatively.

Right before Marcus was dragged to the big central tent, he was abruptly turned and pushed through the fur covering of a slightly smaller tent. Inside the tent walls flickered with the light of a few seal oil candles. The furs that made up the walls were much thicker and better constructed, keeping the biting wind out.

Marcus’s eyes were drawn to the darkened back edge of the tent, where the Seal Prince, still covered in the pale blue paint of his people, lounged on a pile of furs. The Prince gestured at the two holding Marcus then towards the central pole holding up the tent ceiling. They quickly hauled him over to it and shoved him face first into the ground. The taller one knelt on his back while the other retied him so that his arms were outstretched in front of him and attached to the pole near where it met the dirt.

The Seal Prince bit out a Pict word at them and they left, closing the flap behind them.

Marcus turned his head awkwardly to watch as the man slowly got up and prowled over to him. He looked wolf-like with predatory eyes and the jawbone braided up into his hair.

The Seal Prince crouched by Marcus, pulling his face around to examine him. Marcus spat in his face.

The backhand came suddenly, stinging up high on his cheekbone. Marcus felt the skin split over the bone. It would bruise up and hurt, but at least Marcus felt like he had shown the Prince that he would not be a meek slave.

The Prince barked out a sharp laugh and patted Marcus’s cheek over the cut. Then his fingers trailed over the Roman’s throat, resting over his Adam’s apple.

Marcus stilled and swallowed, afraid that the Prince would break his neck or squeeze until he suffocated. He did not want to die here, surrounded by enemies and without his honour or having restored the honour of his father.

But the other man’s hand drifted lower, over the front of his shirt and down to his hip. The other hand came to the other hip and began tugging on his braccae. When they did not pull down far, the Prince pulled out a thin, sharp knife tucked into his own clothing and used it to slit the laces. Once his braccae had been pulled down, Marcus felt exposed with the Prince looking at him there, where he was vulnerable.

Marcus knew that some of the older Roman men took young male lovers, but Marcus had never taken one for himself or been a male lover to another. His pride was too great for that. Now, he was debased and afraid that the Prince would take him in that way as the cool hand palmed over his buttocks. Marcus was not even sure of exactly how two males performed intimate acts. A female could be thrust into, but where would a man thrust into another man?

The Pict’s hand drifted away but came back, coated in something slippery with a fatty smell like the candles. As it slid between his cheeks and into his crack, Marcus was overcome with a new wave of fear and bucked up, trying to knock the other man off him.

The Prince responded by dropping all of his weight down on him. He was half a head shorter than Marcus, but still heavily muscled and no light weight at all. With Marcus’s bad leg flaring up in the cold weather, he could not get the man off him.

The hand returned and pressed against his hole. He clenched, but a finger slipped inside, stinging. Marcus refused to let out the sob that built up in him, holding it inside. What must have been seal fat aided the way and the finger pushed in deeper. Before the stinging had abated, another and then another in quick succession were worked into him, the rim of his hole throbbing in pain. They thrust in and out, working him open.

Marcus was glad when the hand withdrew, leaving his backside feeling strange. He had never touched himself there except to clean perfunctorily.

A blunt force pushed at his hole again, not making it inside. Marcus gripped at the ropes tying his hands to the pole and tried to pull himself forward to get away from the feeling.

The Seal Prince grabbed his hips with bruising force and dragged him back under him. The head of his cock pierced Marcus and entered him. Marcus arched his back in pain, clenching his teeth to avoid calling out. He refused to humiliate himself more than he already was.

The other man’s penis pushed forward and rocked back in small motions, digging deeper into him on each pass. Despite the seal oil, there was a burn from the friction. Lying on Marcus’s back above him, the Seal Prince let out a throaty groan. He leaned forward and scraped his teeth along the side of Marcus’s neck, no doubt leaving red marks behind. Finally his cock slid home, defined hipbones digging into Marcus’s ass.

Marcus turned his face towards the dirt below them, trying to block out the depraved actions happening to him. He was supposed to regain his family’s honour by travelling into the north, not lose all his own. He never would have imagined he could be brought down so low.

The Seal Prince picked up the pace of his thrusts, making slapping sounds against the backs of Marcus’s thighs. Involuntarily, Marcus clenched down harder and the Prince made a low sound in the back of his throat.

Suddenly bright spots burst in Marcus’s vision as the cock thrusting into him dragged along the front wall of his hole. It was almost worse to feel pleasure from this horrible act. It felt too much like rolling over and taking it, giving in. At least with the pain, Marcus could cling on to his anger and pride.

A hand slid up from his right hip and took a firm hold of his hair, pulling his head back. His spine curved, trying to avoid the new pain from the rough tugging. The Seal Prince pressed his temple to the side of Marcus’s face, panting hot puffs of air by his ear. Marcus felt revolted to have the face of the man raping him so close to his own.

The one hand left at his hip scratched short nails forward and grasped Marcus’s soft cock in it. The touch brought pleasure in combination with the occasional bright sparks when the other man’s cock hit that spot up inside him. Despite himself, Marcus started to harden. He tried to will his member back down but the sensations were too much. The hand swiped over the head of Marcus’s cock and back down, spreading a drop of fluid that had leaked from the tip.

The thrusts into him began to become erratic. The full, rhythmic thrusts turned into shallow, quick thrusts deep inside of him, the Seal Prince’s pelvis humping into him like an animal. When the Prince’s hand stroked down the length of his cock and pressed down on his balls, Marcus jerked and came. He cut off a brief cry and saw stars.

As he returned to himself, he became aware of the warm, pulsing sensation inside of him where the Seal Prince was spilling his seed. The Pict was a hot, damp line along the length of Marcus’s back, limp with the pleasure of release. Marcus felt disgusted with himself that he had gotten off, despite hating all that was going on.

Finally, the Seal Prince returned to himself and rolled off Marcus’s back, lazily rising to his feet. He walked over to a rag and a clay pot near the side of the tent and dipped the rag in, using the wet cloth to wash himself. Marcus watched warily. The Prince tucked himself back into his fur breeches and did up the tie, while Marcus remained with his ass out for all to see, unable to pull up his own braccae.

The Prince strode to the flap of the tent and ducked out. When he came back a moment later, one of the warriors from before and a different one followed behind him. They wordlessly walked over to the prone Roman, untied his arms from the post and dragged him to his unstable feet. The pain in his leg had worsened and now he could barely stand. There was an aching soreness in his ass that made it hurt to move.

The two young men pulled Marcus forward and walked him through the dark of the night back to the tent with the other slaves. Unceremoniously they deposited him on the hard ground far away from the lingering heat of the burnt out firepit. One of the other slaves, a woman by the outline of her hair, turned to see what had disturbed her sleep and promptly turned back around. No one else stirred.

Marcus lay there in the darkness. He rolled onto his back, his ass throbbing. He stared at the battered fur ceiling of the tent. He did not begin to sleep until the thin light of the morning seeped in through the walls of the tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already have the second chapter close to finished, but it may take me a little while to update, as I want to have the third chapter drafted out before posting the second one. Thank you so so much for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I hope you enjoy the second chapter of Ember! Sorry for the wait.

When Marcus woke, the other slaves were already stirring and beginning to move about in the confined space of the tent. He sat up, unsure of what he should do. He considered the flap of the tent, weighing the likelihood of escaping and making a break for the south. Not likely, even if he could get his hands free, with no supplies and no horse in addition to his crippled leg. His whole backside still hurt and his stomach rumbled with hunger. He would not make it far at all.

An older woman, hair more grey than brown, turned when she heard him move. She came over to him, gait slow. “Do not try. You will not make it far,” she told him, solemn. She had a thick Pict accent but her Latin was good for the north. “I am Tarain. Come with me. I will show you where we work.”

Without any other options he liked better, Marcus followed the woman. They emerged from the tent and Tarain led him off along the edge of the tribe. After a minute or two of walking, they arrived at some big wooden frames set up for stretching and tanning hides. Tarain sat down and Marcus joined her on the cold ground. The slave woman showed him the tools used for scraping the flesh from the hides piled there, and wordlessly got to work.

Marcus picked up the sharp-edged tool. He watched Tarain and followed her motions. The other woman made it look easy, long practiced motions methodically removing the flesh. Marcus struggled through it. He was not used to labour such as this. In Calleva such things were beneath a legionary of his station.

When he was finished with the first hide, Tarain took it from him and inspected it closely. She took her own tool to it to remove what he had missed. In this way they worked. Marcus stewed in his thoughts as he scraped, frustrated and angry.

A small group of young Seal warriors walked past where they worked, pointing at him and laughing amongst themselves. Marcus was already half risen to defend his honour when Tarain grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.

“Do not mind them. We need thick skins. Do not forget that you are a slave here, Roman. Pride has no place to survive.”

Marcus shook his head. “Do not tell me you are content being a slave here. No man is meant to serve so lowly under another.”

Tarain laughed. “Then why do Romans have so many? I saw the Cunoval Prince with you. I know more of the ways of the south than the Seal People do, and I do not think you were his slave first.”

Marcus looked down, ashamed. What she had said was true. He himself, however unwilling, had enslaved Esca to serve his own purposes. Now that the tides had turned and he found their roles reversed, he regretted it.

“And how did you become a slave then, if you know the ways of the south?” he asked.

Tarain stared off for a moment, eyes seeing the past. “I may be a member of the tribes of the northern country, but I am no woman of the Seal People. They will take who they want as it serves them, if you are there for the taking and have wronged them.”

Marcus was affronted. “I have not wronged the Picts! And yet they have abused me here.”

Marcus was not used to being scoffed at so often. “You trespass on their lands now. Your people fought theirs and killed them, enslaved others,” Tarain told him. “Do not think that they are not wronged.”

Marcus did not argue with the headstrong old woman. It did not truly matter what he thought anymore. A master does not need to listen to their slave. It also seemed unwise to disagree with Tarain and distance himself from the only person willing and able to talk to him, maybe even help him.

They worked in silence for the rest of the morning. A man in worn clothing came by in the afternoon with bowls of thin stew for them. Marcus and Tarain paused in their work to eat it, and then continued to clean the hides, stretching them out on tenterhooks and hanging them from the nearby frames.

When the sky grew dark, they returned to the slaves’ tent. Tarain pulled Marcus after her to the small section of the tent that must have been hers. The other returning slaves ignored them and quietly chatted amongst themselves or laid down to sleep.

“Why do they avoid me?” Marcus asked.

Tarain turned from the blankets she was settling into. “You are Roman. And the Prince has taken notice of you. That is dangerous here.”

Marcus did not ask her anything else after that. He did not want to think about the Seal Prince who had taken him the previous night. He took the fur that Tarain held out to him, draped it over himself, and turned over to sleep.

The next morning, after some cooked fish for breakfast that was probably the leftovers of the warriors’ meal from yesterday, Tarain took Marcus down the bluffs to the shore. Two of the other slaves, both middle-aged women, joined them, although they stayed to themselves and walked in the opposite direction at the shore. Tarain and Marcus wandered together along the rocky beaches collecting driftwood bleached by the sun.

Although the work was not particularly difficult, the uneven boulders were difficult for Marcus’s leg to navigate. Once they each had large piles, they hauled them the long trek up to the camp and then returned to collect more.

As they combed the shorelines, they mostly stayed quiet. Occasionally Marcus would ask Tarain about the tribe, trying to figure out if there might be clues to where the eagle standard was. He did not get any useful information in that regard and quickly turned to more general questions, hoping that something might help him to get away at least.

At one point he asked about the leaders of the tribe. “Who is the old man I was brought to when I was taken here? He is the chief?”

Tarain bent down to pick up a twisted branch. “Yes. He is the chief of the Seal People, as was his father before him. The warriors follow him.” She straightened and turned back towards the pile. Marcus followed her with his own armful of wood. “His son is Liathan. He will lead the tribe when his father is dead or too old. Liathan has already taken over on most of the hunts.”

Liathan. That must have been the name of the Seal Prince. The leader of the warriors who had captured Marcus and defiled him in his tent two nights before. Who had claimed him like some war prize, a Roman to subjugate.

Marcus did not ask any more questions and returned to working in silence. If the acute woman noticed, she did not say anything.

By the time they had wandered perhaps a league or so along the shore and collected a dozen armfuls each of firewood, the sun was low in the sky. They returned to the camp, depositing their last haul by one of the more central tents. Marcus had realized early on that the firewood was not for them and the other slaves. It all went to the more prominent warriors’ home tents.

Marcus turned, feeling eyes watching him. Through the gap in the tent across from him he saw the Seal Prince, eyes dark. Marcus made eye contact with him for a brief moment, mud brown to mossy green. He jerked back around, unsettled. He hurried to catch up to Tarain and followed her back to the slaves’ tent.

He refused to think about what those dark eyes watching him might mean.


End file.
